L’amore é basta and the Nazi Cat

I’ve not had much time this week to contribute to my blog, as it has been Action Project week. The project is a week of drama for children aged from 5 to 14. We work on a performance piece all week, and deliver it to an audience on the Friday evening. This is my last one as director, as I shall be making the move to Italy.

This time we are using the music of Lady Gaga and the play shall be set around a dance studio. We will be looking at the themes in the fable, Beauty and the Beast. I have decided that the part of the beast shall be played by a girl. In the story the Beast is a monster, I don’t want that I just want the character to be different in some way. In the story Belle falls in love with the Beast despite his being horrid to her and everyone around him. So I have gone out on a limb and decided the character shall be disabled. It’ll be a way of looking at prejudice and how love overcomes all.

Day one, I drive to collect our choreographer Becky; yes, of Operation JJ fame. Tiziano Ferro shuffles with ‘Peverso (Melodica Remix)’ as I make my way through the near deserted streets. You can tell it’s half-term the traffic is sparse to say the least. I am blocked from turning into one street by a white van parked across the junction. Two other drivers are confused by this piece of strange parking. A tubby man in a high visibility vest emerges from a newsagent, a copy of The Sun under his arm and a half eaten KitKat in his hand. “I just nipped in to get a paper, mate,” is his response to the driver of a Citroen that questions the barmy parking.

The students arrive, and are soon up for the idea of the show. We are also making a film, and one of our talented young ladies, Lowri has been working on a theme for it. Lowri, wants us to be filming a series of Big Brother, but all the housemates are fairy tale characters. After a discussion about which characters we shall have in the film, I set about looking at the performance piece with the others as Lowri spends some time scriptwriting.

Lowri shall be playing the part of Isabel, a girl in a wheelchair, and Brodie will be playing the part of the boy who falls in love with her. Day one ends with a game of drop ball, and the first third of the play blocked and under our proverbial belts. I drive home with the iPod playing Placebo’s cover of the Boney M classic, ‘Daddy Cool’

Day two and Becky, shows the students the routine to the first dance. ‘Monster’, the boys groan but we show no mercy, they will dance. And they turn out to be fabulous. We block some more of the play and in the afternoon begin filming.

The week continues in split days of filming and rehearsal. Becky comes up with a wonderful dance routine to Gaga’s ‘Speechless’, for Brodie and Lowri, that has me in tears no matter how many times I see it.

Friday arrives, and the performance goes without a hitch. The students are superb and the message; Love is Enough is well received. I find it difficult to deliver my parting speech, and like a big gayer I cry. It will be hard leaving these wonderful children. I have spent so much time being with them over the last three years, they have become like family, and I really do love them all.

I drive home with ‘Deeper than Love’ by Antony and the Johnsons, which shuffled forward, as if sensing my mood. A few glasses of wine are sipped, as I watch the first of the Stephen K Amos shows on BBC2, the show is disappointing and humourless, or maybe it’s just difficult to laugh at the moment.

Saturday morning arrives, and at 08.40 I get a video call from Georgia on Skype. She says she loved the show last night. I tell her I haven’t packed yet. As we’re leaving for Italy today, she tells me to get on with it then.

And what about the Nazi cat? Rachel has a cat called Delilah, and whilst she was taking it’s photograph, the cat struck an unfortunate pose. Delilah looks like she’s a feline member of Hitler youth.

The iPod is on shuffle as usual, and as ‘Master of the House,’ from Les Miserables begins to play I set about packing for my next 18 days in Casoli, Italy.

Ciao tutti.

Soft Dogs With Hard Names

This week has been filled with dog incidents that have made me smile, all have involved dogs that just don’t match up to their names. Dog 1. The first was a dog I saw tethered outside that famous retail freezer outlet, once championed by Ms Katona. It was a lanky thing and was whimpering for its owner, who emerged with a carrier bag full of frozen goodies. The owner was dressed in a tracksuit and had tattoos on his neck, so was really classy. He put the shopping down as the dog jumped up excited to be reunited with its owner. The boy shouted at it to stop, but it just kept trying to lick his face. “Storm, stop it.” he said. ‘Storm,’ I sniggered to myself, this dog was obviously named as a pup and grew up to be a mere breeze. I switch on my Ipod and head off into town, smiling as Pete Doherty sings ‘Sweet By And By’.

Now at the moment I’m in the middle of a DVD buying frenzy. I’ve never really been the sort of person to invest much time in a television series, so am not an avid collector of boxed sets. However I stumbled across the American show, Supernatural again a few days ago, and having seen season 1 for sale in Tesco for a meagre £12 I took up the option to purchase it. 4 episodes later I'm out getting season 2. We’re also buying lots of films for when we move to Italy, so we have some English speaking TV sorted out until we get SKY sorted out over there.

I was up town, browsing for DVD’s when I came across Dog 2. Now dog 2 was a gorgeous white Staffordshire bull terrier, being Staffordshire born and bred, we all know these breeds are known for being very gentle dogs. This one is with a skinny lad again with a tattoo on his neck. The lad is chatting to a young lady, who really doesn’t suit the plum colour she has in her hair. The dog is loose and running happily to passers by, eager for a fuss. The lad tries to control the dog, but she’s far too excited by the attention she’s getting. He calls her, Blitz, is her name. It hardly suits her. She runs over to him and jumps up and grabs the end of his belt with her teeth, and in an instant, his jeans are around his ankles and passers by are laughing, and Blitz is wagging her tail.

Mid week I nipped to Crewe to purchase an item for a friend over in Italy, nothing unusual in that. However I’m driving along with iPod playing ‘Mr Blue’ by Yazoo, from the recently released Reconnected Live album. I look up at my rear view mirror and the driver of the car behind me is wearing a Halloween mask, it’s a white pumpkin head one, and is a little bit disconcerting.

It’s whilst in Crewe that I spot Dog 3. This one’s a hefty looking Rottweiler, it’s on a lead and doesn’t want to walk, it’s being stubborn and just sits there as a tiny girl pulls at it. She’s obviously losing patience as her voice is quickly rising from a stern command to a shriek. “Come on,” she says tugging at the lead. The dog goes from sitting to rolling over, tongue lolling out of its mouth and what’s left of its tail wagging. And I kid you not, the dogs name was Diablo. I drive home with Keith Urban singing, ‘You’ll Think Of Me’.

This week has been rather uneventful to be honest, maybe because I’ve spent much of it labouring over an article for the journalism course I’m doing. I have to write a 800 word piece and have chosen to write about Fara San Martino, a small town in Abruzzo where pasta is made. It’s a lovely little town nestled at the foot of the Majella mountains. Some people think the two huge pasta factories spoil the area, but I think that in an area where there is very little employment, these factories provide an income and stability for the people of the Chieti region.

While driving home I had to stop and wait as a car with 2 huge yellow and red stickers emblazoned across it was winched onto a pick up truck. The stickers that covered the rear window and side door read, ‘No Insurance, No Car. ’ Now I agree with this principle, even to the point of having no sympathy for the man on the pavement watching his car being taken away. What I didn’t agree with in this situation was the fact that for 1 car, and 1 driver there were five police cars. 10 police officers were involved, what a waste of public money and resources. I felt like voicing my opinion, however Editors began to play ‘You Don’t Know Love’ from their superb third album, ‘In This Light and on This Evening.’ So as I was waved on by a chubby policeman, I sang along with Tom Smith and went home.

Saturday evening was spent with good food and better company. We are eating at a local public hostelry, called the Horn and Trumpet, or as I refer to it, the horny strumpet. I am with my ex-wife and her kids, people may think it’s odd but we still get on on really well, and socialise as often as possible. After dinner and a few games on the Wii, of which I am hopeless on, as my hand eye co-ordination is rubbish, I come home in time for the Piers Morgan interview on TV with Cheryl Cole. Now I know Ms Cole has had a bad time of it lately, what with her marriage breakdown and malaria, so I’m expecting tears. She’s very gracious and candid about her ex-husbands infidelity, and I applaud her for this, I just don’t like the fact that you can tell all the answers have been rehearsed in advance, and the final statement by Cheryl was so obviously written by a PR guru.

Sunday is spent ironing shirts, this most mundane of jobs can only be made bearable with my iPod shuffling away in the corner. I start the job at 11.20, with Soft Cell playing, ‘Say Hello, Wave Goodbye’ and at 16.05, with Ash playing ‘Candy’ , with it’s soaring sample from ‘Make It easy On Yourself’ from their ‘Free All Angels’ album, I slide the coat hanger beneath the shoulders of the final pristine, crisp and crease free shirt. Time for an episode of Supernatural methinks.

Charlotte Brontë Made Me Eat A Rabbit

One of my favourite quotes comes from the Victorian poet and novelist, Charlotte Brontë: "Better to try all things and find all empty, than to try nothing and leave your life a blank." I’ve always tried to live by a similar code, and often make the effort to try something new, just for the experience. I will listen to new genre’s of music, visit new places and am always up for trying new food. Last Saturday as Wham sang ‘Bad Boys’ (Yes I do have Wham on my iPod, sad I know). Anyway as George and Andrew bounced around on the Apple hard drive, I was thinking about food that I’ve not tried.

Now, I have tried many things that most people would balk at. I sampled the foul smelling Durian fruit whilst in Kuala Lumpur, I’ve even digested 100 year eggs in Indonesia, that was an experience I’d rather not repeat. Oh and I did once swallow a fly in Glasgow, that was unintentional. So, thinking back to Ms Brontë’s quote, I recalled that I have never tasted rabbit. It made me wonder if purchasing one would be easy. I remember as a child, every butcher’s shop would have them hanging outside.

So I climb into my car, install IPod into dock, and as Angela McCluskey starts to sing ‘Long Live I’, I drive off in search of that elusive ingredient, a wild rabbit. The first butcher I approach, a squat man with one eyebrow higher than the other, tells me “We have no call for them nowadays, no one eats the beggars anymore.” The second butcher, a willowy young lady, who visibly winces at my request says, “Eww, we don’t do them here love.” I decide to try the local indoor market. My first enquiry solicits the reply, “We can order them for you, I take it you’d want it skinned?” Hurrah! The next stall I reach has them. Three of the skinned beasts lie together, all headless and facing to the left. Now, I was always led to believe that rabbit was a relatively inexpensive meat, but alas no longer. I pay my £4 for one of them and head off home without a single notion of what I’m going to do with it.

Sunday arrives and after consulting many cookery books and browsing online rabbit recipes, I plump for a Sardinian dish, which is simply called, ‘Rabbit and Potatoes’. So a quick trip to the local place of worship; Tesco (there’s more people in there on a Sunday than in church). I purchase required ingredients for the recipe and as Frankie Goes To Hollywood begin pumping that bass line from ‘Relax’, minus big hair and shoulder-pads I stride back to my car with an eighties swagger. Once back in the kitchen, with the remnants of ‘Frankie’ now fading I assemble my ingredients. First for the dish is the rabbit, rosemary (that’s the herb not the rabbits name) and garlic.

‘I Love You To Death’ by the Village People starts to play; I can see it’s going to be one of those days musically. The rabbit gets floured and browned in a pan with the garlic and rosemary, before going into a casserole dish. I deglaze the pan with white wine, scraping all those yummy bits off the bottom ready to stick to the onion that’s now been added. Some carrots are chopped into chunks and with some more wine are added into the pan to simmer away for a few minutes, before being tossed on top of the meat. The lid goes on to the casserole dish and the pot is put inside the oven on 150C for 40 minutes. Time for a glass of something fizzy, a bottle of prosecco pops and my glass is filled as the iPod now plays ‘Hit That Perfect Beat’ by Bronski Beat; it must be gay-day today in Stoke.

I chopped some potatoes; notice quantities have been omitted, I’m going for that bung it all in and see style of cooking today. The potatoes are fried in some olive oil. A good one is preferable, I only use one brand. It’s produced in Abruzzo, and is the most delicious I have come across. Here’s the link to their website. Fonte Monache Once the potatoes have browned it’s time to add them to the pot and with the lid off let the whole thing cook for another 15-20 minutes. Another glass of prosecco later and Marc Almond sings ‘Love To Die For’.

20 minutes later, with the Spice Girls singing, ‘Stop’ – is there no end to these camp delights? The rabbit is ready, and served with a stuffed Portobello mushroom. Now has come, as Bruce Forsyth says on ‘Strictly’ the moment of truth, and I try rabbit for the first time. Now people say it tastes like chicken, but I don’t think it does, mine tastes like rabbit with garlic and rosemary. It’s very nice, a bit fiddly with the small bones to navigate your knife and fork around. But on the whole I liked it. Now all I need to do is find a suitable song to accompany this blog entry, and figure out what will be next on my culinary quest.

Operation JJ and the Sandwich Lottery

Operation JJ, or to give it, it’s full title Operation Jet-set Jackie, took place on the date of 10.10.2010. It was the culmination of months of planning and reconnaissance, and….. Okay so I’m lying, it was the result of a few messages over the social networking site Facebook. Basically Becky, had split up from her fiancé in Greece, (Malia) and had moved back to the UK. Sadly she had to leave her beloved Jack Russell behind: Hence the name ‘Jackie’. One day as the iPod shuffled bringing forth ‘Material World’ by Tracy Chapman, I checked my Facebook page. I noticed Becky’s status update read, Becky, desperately needs to find £500 by the end of the week to fly my dog over to the UK from Greece...anyone got any fast money-making ideas? :-(

I, being concerned; (for concerned read nosey) call to enquire what the upshot is. Ten minutes later I am sat on the sofa with said friend, drinking a chilled glass of Fragolino and hearing all the gossip. Basically, her boyfriend says he wants to go travelling, so if she can’t get the dog by Friday, he’ll give it away. (A bluff we think). In the meantime a girl named Ingrid, is leaving Malia at the weekend and heading home to The Netherlands. She says she can carry the dog to Amsterdam airport. Another glass of wine and I come up with a cunning plan. Let’s bob over to France on a ferry, skirt through Belgium and pop over the border into Holland and pick up the pooch.

I drive back from Becky’s house listening to ‘State Farm’ by Yazoo. I am giddy with excitement, or is it the wine. I check ferry sailings and consult maps and the trusty Satnav, to determine timings, Becky liaises with Ingrid and before long a plan has been formed; in the process we have also adopted the persona of secret agents. Becky becomes Red49, I am Pink61 and the secret agent we are about to rescue (Holly) is Green 22.

Sunday 10.10.10 and the time is 04.45 and Barbra Streisand sings ‘Promises’ from her hugely successful 1980 album collaboration with Barry Gibb. I arrive at Becky’s at 05.00 and with Red49 and Pink61 in position our mission begins.

Red49 Pink61

Becky has prepared enough food to keep a family of four happy on a day out, we have chicken sandwiches, ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, chicken and cheese, ham and cheese, etc etc…. today will be a sandwich lottery, it’ll be a case of dip hand into the bag and retrieve your mystery butty. As we pull away from the kerb Kelly Clarkson starts to sing, ‘Where Is Your Heart?’.

The drive to Dover seems to pass by quickly, music shuffles as we chat, we’re obviously suffering from lack of sleep as the conversation is punctuated with jokes and bad impressions of people from TV drama’s. We spend the latter part of the journey pretending to be soap opera villains, and come to the conclusion that to be a good one, one must have a moustache and a fake French accent. We park up on board our ferry, The Pride of Dover and as ‘Gasolina’ by Bonde Do Role finishes playing I remove the iPod from it’s dock and we move upstairs to the lounge.

Our first objective is to act like proper secret agents and check out the lounge for enemy agents and potential Cretan spies from Malia. This done we settle down with a large coffee courtesy of the ‘Costa’ chain and have our first go on the sandwich lottery.

First out of the bag is chicken and mayo, followed by Becky’s enormous bag of sliced cucumber. There’s very few other people on board, an unfortunate looking girl saunters past giving us a side long glance, as does a young mother with three children, I say children, I can tell by their height they are such, but the two boys look like old men, maybe they’ve been deprived of sleep too. After another pointed stare by a passer by I come to realise, that perhaps we’re laughing far too loud for this early hour. Another go on the sandwich lottery gives us cheese, and the obligatory cucumber.

Calais greets us with brilliant sunshine and the promise of good weather, we’re quickly off the ferry and meandering our way along the French highway, heading towards Dunkirk, which Becky believes because of it’s name should really be in Scotland. We cross the border into Belgium as Lene Lovich sings ‘Wonderful One’ and Becky is unimpressed, not with the Michigan born singer but with the little blue sign that simply says Belgique. She reckons there should be signs similar to those in the UK that mark our borders. Next thing we plan to do is to write to the European Union and begin a campaign for large roadside signs that read ‘Welcome to Belgium’ possibly with the country’s flag upon them.

We stop to fill up, the car with fuel and ourselves with fizzy drinks. Beside us is a car and sat on the front seat is a Jack Russell terrier, we deem this to be a good omen, and an indication that our mission shall be a success. With Ian Dury and the Blockheads playing ‘In-Betweenies’ we leave the service station and head north.

We cross over the border into the Netherlands, once again no impressive indication that we’re in another country apart from the language used on the road signs. Everywhere we look someone seems to riding a bicycle, we drive through pretty villages with squat little houses clad with timber when we come to stop at a junction beside a warehouse building sporting the unfortunate name of Tampon.

We arrive at the airport in Amsterdam just as our contact Ingrid texts to say she’s clearing customs. We dash into a shop to get Ingrid a bottle of wine and to buy Lizzie a large Toblerone: It seems that very airport in the world sells this chocolate product in vast quantities, is triangular confection that popular? We wait outside the arrivals gate and before long Ingrid appears carrying a pet carrier, and within seconds the door is opened and Holly crawls out and into the arms of Becky. Sadly the little dog is wearing a red hooded sweatshirt, which she was dressed in prior to departure from Crete, but despite looking like Chav-dog, she’s adorable.

Once Ingrid had been thanked a multiple of times and Holly had had a drink, we started on the journey back to Calais. We have a three hour journey straight through the centre of Belgium and four and a half hours in which to do it in. However the roads that were clear earlier are now cramped with lorries also heading for the ferry ports of Calais and Dunkirk. We arrive at the port just as our ferry leaves and therefore join the queue for the next one. It’s discovered that Holly’s pet passport is missing a signature, nothing too serious, just a vets moniker, the lady in the border control borrows a pen from us and signs it, asking us to look away as she does it. Once sorted, we park up on board ‘The Pride of Kent.’

Agent Red49 and the sandwich lottery

The final go at the sandwich lottery takes place, and I win a warm cheese one that has languished at the bottom of the bag all day. We drink coffee and by now have signs of fatigue clearly showing. I pop to the loo and it’s like a scene from a horror movie, the cubicle doors are all clanging open and closed with the rise and fall of the ferry. It’s disconcerting trying to pee, half expecting a lunatic wearing a mask to lunge out from behind a door.

The drive back is dull, there’s something numbing about that long trek back from Dover to Staffordshire in the dark. We’re both fading fast having been awake and travelling non stop for almost 24 hours, we put Lady Gaga on the iPod, and sing along like a pair of demented X Factor contestants. Exactly 25.5 hours later I drop Becky off at home with Holly and a bag minus sandwiches. Agents Red49 and Green22 officially retire. I drive home as Lady Gaga launches into ‘Bad Romance’ once more. Fifteen minutes later as a door closes on the cold Monday air outside, Agent Pink61 also retires.

Apologies for any typo's and spelling mistakes, I've not double checked this entry.

Daft Driving and Do Old Men Know?

This week I’ve been looking around for incidents of daft driving. What sparked this was on Monday I was driving behind a Citroen Picasso, my iPod was playing as usual, at the time Sean Paul was singing his 2003 hit, ‘Like Glue’. We approached a junction and the Picasso indicated to turn left, I was turning left also. But did the Picasso turn left? No, the driver stopped and proceeded to make a telephone call.  I couldn’t believe anyone would be so silly as to pull over at the junction, surely she, (as it was a female driver), could have gone around the corner and pulled over at a more sensible place.

I went over to my allotment, as having been backwards and forwards to Italy it’s been some what neglected. I have just a handful of things left to harvest. Potatoes, pumpkins and some kale. The weather has been atrocious the past week, this coupled with a bout of ‘Man-Flu’, (that really bad strain only men get) has meant the potatoes will have to wait. I pick some kale and take three pumpkins. I check on my onions that are in the shed, all the large ones that are strung up are fine, they’ve dried nicely, however the mild white Italian ones I have stored in trays have all rotted, well all but one. A valuable lesson learned, string them all up so the air can get around them. 

More daft driving  on the way home from the allotment. Erasure are playing ‘Sometimes’ as I pull into a supermarket. I park and am just about to exit the car, when I watch a lady in her twilight years enter the car park in a small green Honda Civic. Directly opposite the supermarket doors are around 20 vacant parking spaces. The green car driver ignores these and parks directly opposite the doors, a mere 10 yards away. Along with other shoppers I watch astounded as she exits her car and checks all the doors are locked, before walking into the store. Madness!

I come home and after installing the new Alessandra Amorosso album onto my iPod, make spicy chicken and a salad with the last of the salad from the allotment. Alessandra sings ‘ La Mia Storia Con Te’ (My Story With You) and I take a chilled bottle of prosecco from the fridge. Perfect, a little bit of Italian sunshine in the midst of the British October rain.

I go out in the evening, and once again experience another daft driving  incident. This time it’s a male driver, he approaches a zebra crossing where people are waiting to cross. He stops, not to let the people cross, but directly over the black and white lines, as his passenger winds down his window to have a conversation with a youth waiting to cross the road. This is followed by a series of horns being honked, before a hand emerges from the driver’s window with a defiant middle finger raised. My iPod shuffles 80’s band Animotion to the fore and I drive off as they play, ‘Open Door’.

I went into town and encountered yet another daft driving episode., This time i was greeted by a woman driving towards me on the wrong side of the road. She hugged the pavement closely, waved to me as if to say thanks for stopping. I wanted say ‘it’s not politeness that made me stop, but the thought of imminent impact’. She then turned into a driveway of a house I can only assume is her home. Up town I walk around the shops aimlessly, then try some hats on in Primark before having a disappointing meal in Varsity.

Now the meal at Varsity reminds me of something that I was thinking about a few days ago…. Do old men know when they fart?  The reason I ask is because, a day ago I stepped out of a doorway in B&Q to let an elderly couple push past, as they did the man farted loudly. His wife asked,”Was that you, Arthur?” to which he replied in the negative, she then looked at me and said under her breath, “Dirty lad.” Now I’m happy to be referred to as a lad, but not as the fart dealer. I’ll explain why Varsity reminded me of this. As I eat my disappointing meal, there’s an elderly gentleman playing pool with a younger one. The elderly gent is named Reg I am informed via their conversation, the problem is every time Reg bends over to take a shot he farts, and he appears oblivious to this bodily function.

Oh the things you see when you’ve not got a camera. I’m walking through town towards my car, when I notice that another fast food outlet has opened up. I don’t think I’ll be paying them a visit though, for in the window is a sign advertising, ‘DONAR KEBABS’, who and what’s been donated I’m not sure.

I decide to get a new tattoo, and have L’amore é basta (love is enough) etched onto the inside of my left arm. and with tingling arm I switch on the iPod and walk back to my car with Chesney Hawkes singing his hit, ‘The One And Only’

Thursday is dull overcast sort of day so I pull on my coat and with ‘Working My Way Back To You’ by the Detroit Spinners playing call into the petrol station, to fill up Bertie Berlingo.  Now I’m quietly standing at pump 4, with the unleaded pumping into the tank, when next to me at pump 5 an old man gets out of his car and begins to use the pump. Nothing strange about this except that he lets out a loud fart, and not a glimmer of recognition crosses his face.

Daft  driving once again, and this one made me laugh out loud. There’s a lad in his twenties that drives a blue Subaru, you know the kind, blacked out windows and low sills, and an exhaust that makes enough noise to shake the buildings as it drives past. Well lad, (actually for’ lad’ read: Dickhead) is as usual gunning the engine and driving like a lunatic through residential streets, this time he’s passing a school, so there are speed bumps in the road. My iPod shuffles and ‘If This Is Is Love’ by girl group, The Saturdays starts to play, (I like the Yazoo sample). I pull in behind a car to allow speeding Subaru to pass, and wallop, his front sill hits the speed bump. The car bounces, actually bounces and the driver pulls over. His door opens and Snoop Dog at a deafening volume spills out onto the street, and a unhappy lad looks at the front sill, which is now hanging off, the right hand bracket obviously broken.  Hence my laughter.

Saturday arrives, I decide to chill out in preparation for my next big adventure, which begins at 05.00 tomorrow morning.